Three Times Sebastian Moran Pointed A Gun
by chadders
Summary: Full Title: Three Times Sebastian Moran Pointed A Gun At Jim Moriarty. Sebastian has a knack at getting his own way. Implied Johnlock and MorMor.


**A/N: **Sometimes I get sick of the USA 1919-1941 and write slightly cracky Johnlock and Mormor. I meant to make both the pairings more 'implied', but hopefully you can still read it both ways if you'd rather. But if you don't ship MorMor you _should_. Kindly beta'd by **FezzesRCool25 **and my mate Dainton, cheers guys!

**MAJOR LOVE **for whoever sees the Cabin Pressure reference. Maaaaaajor love.

* * *

**Three Times Sebastian Moran Pointed A Gun At Jim Moriarty.**

Sebastian Moran wasn't quite how John expected him to be.

First off, he expected a suit. Moriarty never appeared without his ridiculously priced attire (granted, there was that one time he was 'playing gay') and John had almost been shocked when Moran appeared out of the shadows in a faded T-shirt and _combats_. John half wanted them both to have suits, matching ones, because then it would be like going up against a Bond villain and his minion. Though, that would probably make Sherlock Miss Moneypenny or . . . _Pussy Galore_. A snigger escaped unintentionally and John felt the ice from Moriarty's glare and a furious sinking in his stomach as Moran pointed his gun at him. Sherlock stiffened to his right.

Then there was the height. If John felt like a hobbit stood next to Sherlock, and wanted to kill him when he got carried up the stairs, God knows how Moriarty felt next to that giant. In fairness, he wasn't that much taller than Sherlock but he had, John noticed, a way of looming over everything – like he was the master puppeteer and not Moriarty.

Moran's gun hadn't been pointed away from John's head, but it was odd . . . Sherlock must have noticed it. Both men seemed to relax in the other's company. John didn't think he'd ever seen Jim Moriarty trust someone, but that was his diagnosis. Why else would the psychopath have his hands in his pockets, swinging backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet and allowing his elbow to brush Moran's side as he moved?

Sherlock had really better think of something quickly though because even in Afghanistan John had heard rumours about Sebastian Moran. And he _never misses._

"This is Sebastian Moran, my personal sniper. I dare say, you have met before – you just haven't seen him." Moriarty introduced with a childish sort of excitement. Moran didn't even twitch.

"Has he ever pulled a gun on you?" Sherlock asked, a genuine interest hidden beneath his bored tone. Only John seemed to notice Moriarty's dismay at the question, like he'd unwrapped a hairy jumper at Christmas, convinced it was a puppy.

"No-" Moriarty began at the same time as his 'personal sniper'.

"Three times." John's eyes widened despite himself. Jim Moriarty had had a gun pointed at him three times and the person who did it is still very much alive? Looked like 'personal sniper' was more accurate than he thought. Live-in (by the looks of things), personal sniper who gets his own way sometimes? Huh. That sounded uncomfortably like him and Sherlock. Except John is a blogger not a 6 foot killing machine. A flash of amusement twisted Moran's face but then it was gone.

"Sebastian, go wait in the car." Oh, there was no way Moriarty referred to Moran as that all the time. That was like when his Mother used to call him 'John Hamish', i.e. when he was about to receive a scolding. John moved for the first time since the gun had been aimed at him, raised a hand to cover the smirk that was forming on his lips. A glance to his right showed him Sherlock hadn't bothered, he was grinning like he'd unwrapped a serial killer, convinced it was a puppy.

"Yes, Boss."

-/-/-

"Yes, Boss."

No, Boss. Sebastian thought with a grimace. From what he could see, this new client (piece of business scum who was most certainly not someone he was about to let Jim make a deal with) was concealing a gun and three knives underneath his rather ill-fitting suit. If Jim thought he was 'going back to the car' he had another thing coming. Course, the smug little bastard knew that and had told him to toddle off anyway.

"No, wait . . ." The client spoke out, brave. Stupid. Where does he come into this?" Both men turned to look at Sebastian, one accusingly and one with the threat of something bad if he didn't move and quickly. He'd had enough of this. There was £500,000 sitting in the black briefcase at Jim's feet. He could probably claim that as his 'Well-Done-Seb-I-Knew-There-Was-A-Reason-I-Hired-You-Not-Just-A-Pretty-Face' bonus if he put a bullet through the client right now. Ah, but Jim was excited about this one. The Westwood was in play.

"That's a very good question." Seb launched into action, spinning Jim (he's beautifully small sometimes) so he had an arm twisted behind his back and a gun pressed to the little fleshy part of his temple. And, God, he'd wanted to do this for so long.

The client's mouth dropped and he froze in his chair. Armed, but not actually reaching for his weapon. Sometimes Sebastian loved his reputation.

"Grab the case, _Boss_. You're coming with me."

The most rewarding part, Sebastian thought, watching Jim sulk out of the corner of his eye on the way back to his flat, was that Jim didn't even have to act. He was that genuinely shocked.

"I'm in a grump, Seb."

"Yes, Boss."

-/-/-

The second time it happened, Sebastian was just having a bad day.

Jim had materialised in his room at an obscene hour, ranting and raving about the number of texts he had sent and how useless Seb was and how Lord bloody knows how he didn't manage to get eaten by one of the bloody tigers if he was such a lazy, good-for-nothing sniper. Sebastian let it all slide over his head. He considered asking how the Hell he had gotten in, and then decided he could go his whole life not knowing.

He was forced into the shower and into a new (expensive, there went his bonus) suit. Jim sniping all the while about tigers and do you even know what a suit is, Sebastian? Then it was clients in and out all day and Seb didn't even get to _kill _anyone. If Jim wanted someone to stand next to him and look the part at his meetings then he could bloody well pay someone to do it. Sebastian Moran was there for shooting things.

"But it's a _nice_ McDonald's, Seb!" Jim insisted, all but pushing him out of the cab and onto the street. He could have sworn one of the security cameras shifted to focus on them. Yes, apparently we're having a McDonald's, jealous, Holmes?

"We're going to stick out like-"

"-We're businessmen. Businessmen frequent McDonald's, Seb. I've seen it on the adverts." Seb bit back a groan. It wouldn't do for the British government to see them argue. He'd already seen Jim push him into a puddle that time he'd taken more than a sip of Coke. Whatever Seb grumbled was lost beneath the babble of over excited two-year-olds as they made their way inside.

And, after the day that Jim had hauled him through, if he thought he was going to stand there and listen to him _flirt _with the scabby teenager at the check out about "what flavour shake would you like, sir?", because _really _there were only _two flavours_, then he had another thing coming entirely.

"What would you choose?" Jim was using his most seductive voice and the girl, actually Seb could sympathise a bit, flushed an ugly red. But this wasn't fair. He couldn't give a damn about her, it wasn't fair on him.

In a swift, barely noticeable movement, Seb stepped forward, the gun that was concealed in his pocket now hidden up his sleeve with the tip of it pressing into the small of Jim's back. He looked like an overprotective boyfriend. Whatever, that couldn't be helped. Jim got the message though.

"I'll have strawberry." The girl looked highly disappointed at the now cold tone and Sebastian's proximity. You win some, you lose some – Seb couldn't help but think. You do not win some with the world's only consulting criminal.

"Seb." Jim pouted around his milkshake straw. Sebastian received a glare when he nicked the gherkins out of the abandoned burger.

"Yes, Boss."

"I'm in a grump."

"Yes, Boss."

-/-/-

The text had said to come over to the flat as soon as he could manage.

The text had sounded urgent even though Seb knew there was nothing on tonight – he'd checked the wall chart.

The text had three kisses instead of the customary one.

Jim was up to something then.

"Tea!" A demanding voice called out as soon as Seb had shut the door behind him, the TV was on loudly tonight.

"Not your housekeeper!" Seb shouted back. What? It was Saturday night; there was nothing on the wall chart, so he was allowed to remind Jim not to be a brat.

"What was that?"

"Yes, Boss!" Allowing himself a grin, Seb moved into the kitchen. The wall chart was empty tonight, he was right. And, oh- paperwork Monday was back? Since when?

Was that . . . music?

"Don't use the white teapot!" That was definitely someone singing on TV. "I lined it with arsenic!"

"Oh, no." Seb looked at the screen and back at Jim. "No."

"What?" There should be a law against people looking so innocent when they're not being. Seb almost felt swayed.

"No. Definitely not. No."

"Seb . . ." The sniper was able to identify that tone as 'wheedling'. Well, he wasn't some idiotic banker, it wasn't going to work.

"Your text was urgent." Sebastian accused. "I'm not watching _this_." That gay kid hit a note which made Seb cringe and Jim's eyes widen.

"Oh, come on! It's good! That girl . . . what was her name? Minnie."

"Molly."

"No, it was Minnie."

"It was Molly."

The two of them glared at each other for a second. They were dancing now, apparently American teenagers do that. Seb was getting a headache.

"She got me into it, anyway." Jim turned his attention back to the screen as the black girl started wailing something. "Go Mercedes!"

No, Boss. This was becoming a far too common occurrence. He had been under the impression his job was to shoot people, not force his boss to behave his age. Or threaten to actually shoot his boss.

Jim's head spun back round at the slight rustle of fabric as Seb drew his gun. What was an impressed look turned into a rather pathetic glower. Seb looked pointedly at the remote.

"I should just fire you."

"Yes, Boss."

"If I put Glee on the wall chart you won't have a choice but to watch it." Seb scoffed at that.

"If you put Glee on the wall chart then no amount of kisses would get me over here." Jim's face lit up, Sebastian had accidentally set him a challenge, but then fell into a frown.

"Seb."

"Yes, Boss?" He finally took a seat on the (expensive, there went his bonus) sofa, feeling quite content now that the TV was on some news channel and the ringing in his ears was fading.

"I'm in a grump."

"Yes, Boss."

* * *

**A/N: **Who knew that McDonald's now do a limited edition Starburst milkshake? Not Jim, obviously.

I would also like to point out here that I actually think the cast of Glee are far too talented for this Earth and it's just a shame they have the worst writers in the world and the producers haven't learnt how to sync audio to video and therefore they sing a note about five seconds after you see them do it.

Now I really must revise.


End file.
